


Coping Mechanisms

by sophialemongrenade



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Chronic Illness, Dysautonomia, F/M, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome- POTS, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:08:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23495086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophialemongrenade/pseuds/sophialemongrenade
Summary: One-shots I write when I'm feelin' down. If you've ever wanted to be comforted by a serial murderer who (more than likely) can't empathize with you at all, then you've come to the right place.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Gender Neutral Reader, Joker (DCU)/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	1. Rite of Spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You ask the Joker what he'll "do with you" when he doesn't need you anymore, and he gets upset for, like, several reasons. tw suicidal thoughts.

“What will you do when you get tired of me?” 

You ask it airily, your arm slung over your eyes as you lie in bed, waiting for him to settle down so you can turn off the light. You’re half-joking; a little gallows humor, a little flirting. It isn’t so out of the ordinary for the two of you to indulge in morbidity, but this time you receive only frigid silence in response. You lift your arm and sit up to look at him. His eyes betray nothing. His face does not move. You could almost believe he didn’t hear you, until he speaks:

“ _What_ did you just ask me?”

You keep silent, think for a moment. You could re-phrase the question, soften it somehow, or explicate it. Perhaps it’s best to be more honest with it, to ask him less teasingly, to allow some of your anxieties to show through. You try again:

“When I’m no use to you, or when you can’t stand me anymore, or I mess up so bad there’s no fixing it- What are you gonna do with me when that happens?”

His response is instant, spoken curtly: “Do you _plan_ on messing _u-_ ** _p?_** ” He shores up the last consonant in that dangerous way of his. 

You begin to think there is no proper way to pursue this line of questioning; he’ll take offense no matter how it’s asked. You should find a way to change the subject.

“Of course I don’t, Daddy.” You try to smile, to lighten the mood and calm him. “You know I try my hardest to be _good-_ ”

“ _End scene,_ ” he sneers, his eyes dark and cold. You blink in confusion. This is the safe phrase he gave you, the first time he tied you down and used a knife on you. You’ve invoked it before, at your limit and his mercy, to bring him down kissing your tears away, but so far _he’s_ never had any need of it. With embarrassment, you realize he is rejecting your attempt to placate him, dismissing it as play-acting, forcing you to drop the pretense. _So much for changing the subject…_

There’s an uncomfortable silence between the two of you. _Why is he so upset by this? Have you missed something? Has he?_ You suppose he’s trying to tell you you’ve misjudged him; apparently, no matter what his past behavior may evince, he does not plan on disposing of you. That would be wonderful news if he didn’t, to the contrary, seem nearly furious enough to go ahead and murder you _right now_. You wait for him to break the silence, determined now not to hang yourself with the noose he’s given you.

“ _So,_ you think I’m gonna get _tired of you,_ hmmm?” He sits down on the bed, leans himself close to you. His voice is light, but not in a good way. You sigh.

“You get tired of everyone, eventually. I just didn’t see why I should be any different.”

“ _You’re different because you’re_ ** _mine._** ”

Normally, these words, venomous and affectionate all at once, might be enough for you. More than enough, even; this is as romantic a declaration as you can imagine prying from his yellow teeth. But at the moment, it’s your turn to point out how his words ring hollow.

“Oh, don’t tell me that makes me an exception! As if you never _break_ your toys!”

“So is that what you _want?_ Huh, Bunny? You want me to _break you?_ ”

“I don’t think it’s _about_ what I _wan_ ** _t!_** That’s the _whole poin_ ** _t!_** ”

You’re talking like him now, smothering certain words in emphasis, biting consonants as they leave your lips. This happens to you sometimes, a piece of him that you unconsciously folded into yourself jumping out at odd moments, usually when you’re angry or have otherwise lost control. Your unintentional mimicry has diffused arguments before, his eyes suddenly shining in amusement as he realizes just how much influence he really has over you. This time he is not amused.

He grabs you under your chin, his fingers digging into your jaw, and directs your face to lock your gaze with his. He leans in close, his eyes boring into you, and speaks to you in deadly quiet tones:

“Well, then. _Wha_ ** _t._** Do you _want_ me. To _do. With. You?_ ” 

How do you answer a question like this? What _do_ you want? When given the chance, even in jest, to pick your own bespoke death, what should you even ask for? When you met him, when you chose to humor him and then to love him, there was something undeniably suicidal in it. You were first drawn to him, at least in part, because he makes a fine facsimile of the Reaper. You know he knows this, even if it is unspoken. He has somehow only just now gotten around to taking offense, and you are unsure of how to mollify, to settle, to apologize.

“If I asked you to bury me, would you even do it?”

His grip on your jaw softens almost imperceptibly, his eyes take on the barest hint of warmth, the strange cold fury thawed into some blink-and-you’ll-miss-it Spring. 

“No.”

He allows you to take his hand from your jaw, to hold it in your own and turn it this way and that. You read the lines on his palm, and they are unintelligible. The veins on the back of his hand trace glyphs no scholar could ever interpret. You kiss both asemic sides of his hand, and he just barely smiles, one corner of his mouth quirking up, his eyes warmer by another degree. You pull him to you by the hand, and show him just how much you want to live.


	2. Mi Shebeirach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are struggling with the cardiac/blood pressure symptoms of your chronic illness and the Joker helps you endure them while being his usual asshole self. tw chronic illness and anxiety attacks.

Tonight is a sleepless night. There’s a constant feeling of weight on your chest, of suffocation, of your heart hammering one moment and falling eerily quiet the next as you sit up and lay down in bed, roll over and over chased by the fluctuating rhythm of your pulse. You know getting anxious will only make it worse, but you have no easy remedy for your terror, the drumbeat in your veins unresponsive to steady breathing and mindfulness. Even the weight and warmth of Jack next to you is no comfort. Your imagination outpaces your attempts to claw yourself back from panic, presents you with the image of him waking up next to your cold blue corpse, heart finally given out in the night. You clap your hands over your mouth and sit up, the sudden change in posture fuzzing your vision and threatening a faint. You sob involuntarily.

A heavy arm drags you down into place and your panic reaches a fever pitch as he folds you under him, his weight adding to the already uncomfortable sense of pressure on your chest. You don’t mean to hurt him but you’re barely even thinking anymore and you breathlessly claw and slap as if he were dark heavy soil and you were helpless in a coffin buried alive in your grave, and finally, finally, he rolls away from you, growling.

“ _What_ are you _doing?_ ” His voice is heavy with sleep, too disoriented to grasp what is happening to you.

You’ve already sat back up, cradling your head against the dizziness and taking low, slow breaths that barely chip away at reducing the frantic pace of your heart. The whooshing sound of your breathing exercises is the only answer to his question. He slowly pushes himself up on his elbows to look at you.

There’s silence for a time. You can tell he’s doing that _thing_ he does, where he stares at you while you’re in pain. He prefers to look directly into your eyes, unblinking, tongue working at the scars in his cheeks. Occasionally though, as he is doing now, he will settle for a more removed, voyeuristic angle. You don’t know if you like it or resent it, can’t tell if he is worried for you or consuming your fear like some sort of vampire. There is an almost clinical feeling to these moments: you, the object of his frank gaze, as open and cold as a doctor’s. You even think, through your haze of pain and panic, that he’d be kind of a good doctor. You would know, after all. You’ve seen enough of them to know the type.

He finally moves. He puts one hand on the nape of your neck, petting you like a cat, careful not to press too hard. He’s seen you short of breath before, knows not to make you feel too constricted. You feel his other hand lift the hem of your shirt, sliding up your stomach to settle over your ribs on the left side. He hums softly, and his face is close enough to your neck that you feel the gentle exhale as he does.

He sits with you like this until both of you feel your heart settle, and you are struck again by the fact that you would live and die for him. He has so little patience for other people, you can’t even imagine him sitting this quietly for this long for any other reason. It makes you feel special, even as you know that he wants you to feel that way; it serves him well. You ignore that, for the moment, eat around the stone in the peach. You lean against him and bury your face where his neck meets his shoulder. He kisses your hair as you breath him in.You kiss the veins under the skin of his neck, thanking them in your mind for working as normal, keeping him strong even when _yours_ don’t, when _you_ can’t be.

“I’m sorry I hit you,” you almost whisper, it is so quiet. You hear him laugh, and it starts low, resonating through the bones under your head, leaned against his chest.

“Don’t you worry your _pretty little_ _head,_ Bunny. Can’t hurt my feelings _that_ easily-” and he grins down at you, and you just _know_ he’s going to ruin how much you love him right now- “After all, _I’m_ not the one who’s so _weak-hearted._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you were reading Die Moritat and you're like "hey where the fuck did Sophia go?" Well, it turns out I have just been vibing. Don't worry, I'm still working on the next chapter, I'm just going through some stuff. Obviously the stuff I'm going through is coming out in other ways XD. This chapter, in case you are having similar symptoms and it's freaking you out, describes Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome and dysautonomia. Be warned these symptoms can indicate other stuff, and if you're worried about your health, you should consult a doctor (I know that's hard to do right now), not a random person on AO3.  
> If you want to see what kind of useless bullshit I get up to on the daily, and possibly heckle me, I have a tumblr under the same username. I wish any and all of you the best of luck during these exceedingly fucked up times. <3


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